The Ties that Bind
by Nonsuch
Summary: In which Linda Williams learns the price of glory...CHAPTER FOUR UP. REUPLOADED. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

We all know the story of Sarah Williams, the girl who won over the inevitable, to conquer the endless twists and trickeries of the Labyrinth. Her life was so very _dull_, so monotonous before those events, she inhabited her own little worlds and fantasies, could not bear the reality, could never accept the departure of her mother. Blamed all but those responsible.

When that little girl's mother left, neither could truly understand why. The reasoning behind the actions was just as complex, just as pitiable for the mother as it was for the child.

* * *

Sarah was born perfectly normal. Textbook mundaneity. Healthy, red-faced and wailing. She looked rather like a miniature alien, red and squawking as most new born babies are. But this was not what the new mother, uncomfortably meeting the tiny infant's blank gaze, had been expecting from the little fragment of herself. She felt no connection to the child. Nothing.

Now, Linda Williams was not a bad person, nor a bad mother, or even a bad wife. She was just totally incapable of fulfilling the afore-mentioned roles, for she had never had any experience of them. She was very, very sad, deep down beneath the peeling layers of make-up and the wide smile, could never truly accept herself as she was, was always trying to escape from the utter normality and drabness of her existence. And it was for that reason that her heart's desire was to be an actress. Constantly inhabiting the form of any but herself.

Linda Sullivan was a rising star in her prime. She'd started with small roles, playing bit-parts in school productions in her spare moments, when not dating, or giggling with her gaggle of friends. It had not taken long for the praise from her clique of admirers to begin, each trying to outdo the others in their attempts to snatch her focus. Only one could win her, and that man happened to be Robert Williams, quite handsome, if not a particularly bright or insightful figure. Robert was a good man in his way, devoted to his partner, hard-working, and above all, extremely likeable. They began dating, and proved to be strangely compatible, intelligent, witty Linda arm-in-arm with her new beau were a common sight around the town. Both were very happy, holding hands, whispering to each other, passing notes in classes. In true romantic tradition, both often sat down for a meal, and would spend the duration of the event gazing vacantly, in the fashion of aspiring romantics, into each other's eyes.

Both surprised everyone by staying together, Linda had for a long time been known as being flighty changing partners with the week, her friends would say, and Robby (as he was known) was little better. Both were enamoured of the other, spending every free moment together. Until other priorities rose into frame for Linda.

Linda's first big break was winning the title role of Kate in Shakespeare's_ Taming of the Shrew._ She shone in it, all agreed. She was a true classical beauty, striking with her small, regular features, and shining raven hair. Her voice could be just as commanding and wrathful as it could be submissive and compliant. Her motions never lacked power or persuasion, and she was as adaptable on stage as she was changeable in reality, alternating between fitful rage and docile, bewildered spouse. And it was this chameleon like skill, paired with her bewitching, captivating looks that would propel her to fame. She received rave reviews for an amateur, even getting a mention in the local newspaper. She had been so proud, had cut the clipping and slipped it into the frame of her dresser, to look on it every morning and remind herself just how far she had come from draping herself in old, tattered curtains and stalking the halls, reading the lines she had learned by rote to meet her grandmother's barking summons for silence.

It was this success that stimulated her to strive for higher things, she began writing letters, taking countless photos of herself with a dusty old Kodak and posting dozens of resumes to every television company she could think of. At first she received nothing but a steady stream of polite, well-worded rejections, but she grew more canny, began applying more make up, enhancing her age and maturity. In photos taken at sixteen she could of easily been mistaken for ten years older, and it was this that got her her break into stardom.

Linda had left school by the time her first television part came along, it was only in a commercial, advertising a girl's magazine of all things. But boy, did she make the most of it, she latched onto the director, the producer, the fellow actors, pressing them for answers in her insatiable quest for knowledge on how to work her way up yet further. Sitting in front of the flickering screen at home, with her cooing, ceaselessly fawning posse of chosen companions, she saw her smiling, made-up face flash onto the box. It was a feeling of exhilaration like she had never known before. She knew then that was what she wanted to do, to have her face dominating the screen, for the world to listen rapt to her voice, to admire her skill, to have her name screamed by writhing adoring crowds. For her to be star.

It was soon after this that Robby had proposed. She hadn't expected it, not at all, she'd been sat in her room at home, in front of the dressing table, applying heavy make-up and draping herself with her strings of cheap corner-store jewellery, anticipating what was to come in her pretence. He'd knocked on the door, stood, for all the world as if turned to stone in the threshold, stuttered for a few seconds, and then he'd bent onto one knee, gazing up at her as if in worship of an idol. And with a trembling, wobbly, uncharacteristically nervous tone, he'd asked her to marry him.

And she'd said yes.

In between the resulting constant buzz and rush of wedding preparations, Linda had found an agent. She had realised that studios did not seek actors out, nor did actors themselves seek out studios – it only makes you come across as desperate, uncoordinated and of absolute insignificance. Actors had agents to commit such petty tasks for them, her chosen representative was a amiable woman, middle aged, insisted on wearing outrageously glitzy clothes, as if striving to be one of those who she worked for, in a desperate ape of their glory. It was all because of Robby that she got her agent, he gave her the money, helped her in the evenings to scour minor screen magazines to find one willing. Her agent proved to be a worthwhile addition to Linda's entourage and soon found her her first guest spot on a television series, it was a tiny part, she only had three lines. But it was an overwhelming experience, to be on the set of a real television series – it was breathtaking. Seeing her name skim across the screen in the end credits was the best part though – truly her name in lights, her eyes had lit up with the sense of power and glory as she sat cuddled close to her fiancée.

The wedding followed some six months or so after the engagement, and it was truly a fairy tale, the sort that any small girl would dream of, crayon countless drawings depicting the spectacle. Linda was dressed in a gorgeous flouncy affair, it had a huge filled out skirt, and a gorgeous embroidered bodice – it had all cost a fortune. But this was no problem for Robby, his parents could easily afford the costs, compensating for Linda's parents – who were absent and unaccountable for the costs that would traditionally be theirs. It was thought odd by most that Linda's parents were not present, especially her father, she had no one to walk her up the aisle, pass her on, but Linda was not disturbed by their absence. She had known solitude for far too long to care. Indeed she was brimming over with happiness, absolutely inseparable from her new husband, even seeing him moments before the ceromony, despite the scolds from her soon to be mother-in-law.

Linda didn't tell anyone where her mother and father where. They were dead, and had been so for a long, long time. She lived with her grandmother, her hated grandmother who in turn despised her only grand-child, who she had raised and watched take the steady path to self-destruction in her constant defiance. It was an unreasonable hate in both directions, the grandmother hated the only child of her adored son for seeing her as the image of the woman who had robbed her of her beloved child. Linda, in turn, hated her grandmother for her long-distant attempts to play the parents she never had chance to know. Her grandmother, dressed as if still occupying a time seventy years past, was there at the wedding, sat still in the back pew, a relic from a dead time. Her grand daughter did not even pay her a glance as she glided up the aisle, the perfect fairy tale princess, risen from her past despair to claim her well-deserved joy. Linda had never felt happier than when she left the church that day, the first day of her life that was truly wholly hers. How she'd smiled and waved at the hundreds gathered in the church yard, her followers who showered her with countless rains of confetti, loudly declaring their love and admiration, all for _her_. She'd squealed in mock fear from the onslaught, laughed from the sense of exhilaration, ran speedily hand in hand with her husband to retreat to the bridal car that awaited them.

It was not long after the wedding that Linda found herself to be pregnant, and she eagerly told all, excitedly declaring how her child would be so loved, have all the best, have all she herself had never been granted. She spent hours scanning catalogues and magazines for the latest fashions, silently scrutinising the chosen baby names of the current A lists stars children, deciding whether such names would be suitable, worthy of her child. She wanted the child to be happy, of course she did, but Linda saw happiness in a bizarre mould, far removed from most common perceptions of the concept. Her married role was already tiring her, but the _child_, the thought of dressing it and prettying it as if a doll, parading her infant about the town, was perceived as a future source of pleasure and purpose.

On her final visit to her grandmother, to reclaim a few mementos of her childhood, she told her sole remaining relation of her news, and her grandmother raised an eyebrow from her needlework, remarking, "I will have to set to work." To which Linda responded sharply, "baby shan't want your efforts, don't spend time knitting clothes that will never be worn." With that, her grandmother was relegated to silence. Linda collected odds and ends, faded photos of her parents holding her tightly as a baby, a few dust covered books and her favoured collection of Shakespeare's plays, adorned with a flourishing inscription to her grandmother as a girl. A book, a pocket-sized red bound volume, was also among the possessions Linda carted home in her hopelessly frail cardboard box. It was a play that Linda had treasured in her childhood, but long since lost any true memory of. She laughed devilishly at the recollection of reciting it before her grandmother, her motivation being solely to chide her and draw forth a warning. The suspicious old biddy thought it to be dangerous, had some queer, archaic belief that it possessed some impotent power, just waiting to be called upon. _Silly old fool, _was the only concern she payed her grandmother's frantic final warnings as she sighted her sole remaining relation depart. She payed no heed to her grandmother's final words as she manoeuvred the box into the hatch of her flashy sports car, did not hear her cry, "if you remember anything of me Linda, anything at all, remember this, happiness is not found through others, it is found through _self!_" Her last words were spoken to the wind. How she sighed from the futility of everything and all as Linda's car pulled speedily away from the drive.

A month later, Linda's grandmother's rocking chair sat empty, it's occupant finally having gained some kind of peace, a form of completion. She took the secrets of the red-bound book with her, was never given the chance to warn of the danger, to truly tell of it's terrible power.

* * *

This is a story that has been through what film makers call 'pre-production hell' that is to say it has taken ages to get it anywhere near a satisfying piece of writing, it's probably still a bit too pretentious (you should of seen the original introduction!) but hopefully it isn't _too_ bad! I'd love to know what you all think (I hope you enjoy it!) so it would be great if you could review, if enough people like it, I will continue! 


	2. Chapter 2

She could hardly believe it at first, that she, Linda Williams, actress and performer extraordinaire, was sat at home with the baby. Watching daytime soap operas, old monotone movies and cookery shows with energetic toothy hosts grinning at her, as if mocking her inferiority – her failure.

At first, she'd went through various stages denial within her busy mind - denying the child was hers, declaring that she had no duty to it, it was her husband's baby, he wanted_ it_, not her. But Robert had taken her to counselling, and she' sat through the droning lectures and speeches given by Doctor Fielding, telling her how it was perfectly normal to feel resentment at such a time.

But he couldn't understand. No one could understand how Linda felt toward her little baby girl, who all cooed at and admired apart from her mother. The mother totally possessed of boundless dislike for her own child.

At the time when baby Sarah was three months old, Linda could safely say it was one of the most disturbed, frustrating and tearful stages of her life. At first she'd just tried avoiding responsibility. She would leave the babe as she cried, refusing to feed her, change her, but she soon learned the vocal horror and the malicious whispers such neglect resulted in. She saw the neighbours watch her in the garden, sunning herself, music blaring as the baby wailed in the background. It was as if they'd struck gold in suburbia, the literal mine of gossip worthy dregs of a life she was providing them with.

* * *

At sixth months, Sarah and was attempting to crawl, exploring merrily the crevices and nooks of the large house that the Williams family now occupied, much to Linda's constant frustration and attempts to stop Sarah from mortally wounding herself on her pride and joy - her chrome plated exercise bike.

Linda had insisted on moving, a new start she'd said, they'd needed to get away from that pokey terrace, the malicious neighbours who dealt in nothing but poison. She'd told Robert repeatedly, and he had caved in to her constant repeated nagging. The new house was beautiful, large, whitewashed, it even had a garage, a huge dining room, even a reception area – perfect for Linda's constant flurry of entertaining.

Linda may have been trapped in the home by the bonds of motherhood, but she didn't let that stop her mingling. Her parties were famous in the locality - for their excess and extravagance. Wine flowed unceasingly, laughter and gaiety were a constant of that house, though the sincerity of such happiness was questionable. The people who came rarely knew her, but she would speak with them as if they were intimate companions, confiding in them her secrets fears and desires – just as they would confide theirs in her.

* * *

When Sarah was a year old, Linda had had enough of the responsibility, could bear it no longer. She'd looked on the play then, scanned over the words that had so scared her grandmother, eyes feasting on their power. She wasn't sure why, but she did not recite the words that would of relieved her of her burden, unconsciously, she was scared of just what they had the potential to do. She put the book aside, deciding she would find other, far more grounded means to rid her of the numbing, restricting responsibility. So she went to her husband, begging to be allowed a nanny, an au pair, anything to help lessen the ceaseless work the baby created.

Upon being told she could not have a nanny for the child, she grew angry, her voice steadily rising as she spoke, "and why not? You're so cruel, you want to keep me chained to this, this, prison, taking care of the baby like a good little housewife. I'm not going to do it any more y' know!"

"Look sweetie, you know it's not because of that, it;s not that at all, we already have the cleaner and she -"

"She what? Charges two dollars an hour? That's hardly gonna break the bank! I mean come on, it's hardly like your short on cash right now, you've got it coming out of your ears with your job at _daddie's_ firm." She spoke the word with a specially selected sneer. She'd hated her in laws since day one, since they'd asked her where her parents where in a tone so condescending and mocking it made her blood rise till she blushed. She didn't however, mind that her father-in-law provided her husband with an extremely well paid managerial position.

"I earned that job off my own back!"

"You must be joking! Before your dad gave you that job you could use your head for one thing – soccer tackles!" This argument continued for some time. After Linda began the screaming, the large doe eyes, and the tears, he could hold back his agreement no longer, and she got her way – the au pair started the next week.

* * *

When Sarah was two, Linda met Jeremy.

Free from Sarah's infant dependence on her, Linda began enjoying life once more. She began auditioning once again, and although unable to get back into the TV work she so desperately craved, her agent was able to present her with roles in some relatively large-scale productions of the plays of Shakespeare, plays Linda had loved and revered since her childhood.

She was out of practice, it was undeniable, and so in many ways it was lucky she was cast with the role of Hero in _Much Ado About Nothing._ Hero being an integral character who speaks roughly a dozen lines in the entire play – consequently a role in need of no greater talent than a pretty face. It was a wonderful feeling to feel the curtains go up, to be on the stage once more, seeing all admire and revere her, for if nothing else, her beauty and radiance.

It also meant she could truly begin to enjoy the company of her daughter. She'd never truly hated the child, and in her own way, she loved her. Her love had forever been stifled by the necessities of her role, the endless feeding and changing. But she was given time to love her with her freedom, to take her about the town and pretty her as she had always wished. She enjoyed buying things for her, brought her beautiful little dresses that sparkled with gorgeous puffed skirts and spangles. As a result, the baby was often taken around town looking more akin to a miniature extra in a lavish production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ as opposed to a sweet but otherwise unremarkable child.

Linda had impressed the company with her performance, her beauty and her charm, and as a result – she won the leading female part in the companies next production, _Anthony and Cleopatra. _In all probability she got the part because of her dark exotic looks. She looked stunning in the elaborate make up and the bejewelled robes, took the breathe away of all who saw her – her husband didn't recognise her until she spoke, for no one could mistake that voice, the power and command it exercised over the audience.

Another man was sat caught rapt in the audience, Jeremy King. He was good friends with the director, a well established figure of some repute in the theatre world, and had been invited to see the performance, as the director knew well that Shakespeare's tragedies were a favoured area of interest for Jeremy.

Now, Jeremy was a successful man, a well-established classical actor with years of experience and a hordes of devoted admirers and critics who pandered to call him _friend_, but did not know him to any degree of depth or intimacy. Few knew how very changeable and distracted he was, constantly searching for something new, a new source of excitement in a life that despite the glamour and the glitz was an endless bore for him.

He'd been indifferent at first, at the beginning, blindly anticipating another poor mime of the bard's mastery. But then he'd seen _her_, Linda, was struck by her beauty, her power, her charm, and was caught in it. He could totally loose himself in the play he himself had performed to the point that he knew it by rote, she made it come alive for him.

He'd clapped up a storm for the curtain call, stood to gain a better view, she'd heard him, through all the busy crowds and the spectacle, and taken a glance up to his raised box, and she'd _smiled_. A dazzling, beautiful smile. She hadn't known what she was doing with that one glance, had no idea how far it was to take her.

* * *

When Sarah was three and half years of age, her mother found love again.

Linda and Robert had been drifting apart for some time at this time, were nearing breaking point. He no longer saw the lively, charming girl he had been so taken in by, just a coldly beautiful woman, driven by a blind desire for fame and success, neglecting all else. The whole idea of their break down in relations distressed him, and he tried desperately to make it work. He took her out, many times on expensive meals, to the opera, in his desperation - for walks in the fragrant air of the park just yards from their home. But nothing appealed to her any more, she looked vague and distant despite all his efforts. He didn't know it was because she was totally lost in the thought of another.

She still loved Sarah, that was sure, loved her more than ever before. She took pleasure in reading to her, often reciting to her the lines of a little red bound book she had brought with her from her grandmother's house. Linda would alter her voice for each role, pitching it high and feminine for the brave, tireless princess, and deep and booming to reflect the all penetrating power and majesty of the Goblin King.

As Sarah grew older, more active, more aware of her surroundings and the people surrounding her, Linda grew to love her more dearly, for she was forming her own little independent shades of character. She was so like her mother, even in the beginning, enjoying her little dress ups and fantasies just as much as her mother pinned all her hopes and dreams on her future as an actress, dreams of success and reveration.

There was good reason behind Linda's distance. After the performance, Jeremy had ran, literally ran, to the florists near-by, that anticipated such love-struck displays of expense and kept the doors open at the ready. He purchased the largest, most opulent bouquet of crimson roses they possessed and bolted back to place it in her hands personally, to shake her hand, congratulate her on what he referred to as a 'captivating performance.' He gave her a slight smile at the remark, many would of mistaken it for a sneer, but Linda knew differently, and smiled coyly in return.

They had no contact for a year afterwards. It was only when they met once more, that she discovered he'd learned she was married, very much taken, and he had only returned when she seeked him.

It was near impossible to find him, for he was a secretive man, something of a recluse who more wished to immerse himself in the content of the plays he performed than reality, and she only put in such effort when she discovered who he was. She'd been taken aback when she'd heard his name, a name she had heard spoken with holy veneration many times, cursed herself for not trying harder, for not keeping his attention a while longer. She'd been entranced by him but not compelled to go further than a greeting, for despite him being striking, enigmatically handsome, she had never for a moment considered what the man stood before her had to offer.

Her agent had found him for her, tracked down the elusive address from her chain of contacts, and had urged her on, she saw the wealth of publicity such a scandal would result in. He lived in an apartment in Manhattan. Not remotely near Linda – but she didn't care, she took the plane, payed for with her husband's money. She told him she was going to see her cousin, when she had none - she cared enough for him to withhold the truth.

She'd become apprehensive at the sight of his door, his apartment was huge, occupied a whole floor of the tower block. It was ridiculously overdone, the door having a knocker in the shape of a lion's head, it was a heavy ugly thing, and it took great effort from her, tired with hours of walking the endless streets of the city to lift it and create the call.

She'd feared he wouldn't be there, had feared he'd open the door and look on her as a stranger, have no recollection of she who had so intrigued him. But no such fears were realised. The door was opened and he'd just stared at her transfixed for a while, as if looking on a ghost – or a goddess.

He'd invited her in, overcoming his shock and surprise at seeing her fast resuming the smoothness and integrity his position demanded, showing her to a chair, sweeping away the piles of tottering paperwork from the seat to make the room for her to seat herself.

They'd chatted a while, amiably, as if old friends catching up on long-forgotten times, no one would think the two had had little more than a glance across a crowded hall. She was hopelessly confident and sure of herself, introducing herself as if a star of huge significance and standing. Jeremy had surprised her with his impeccable manners his politeness, his chivalry, it was as if he truly was one of the dashing lords he so often played on the stage. He wasn't like the others to her then, he showed respect, displayed interest in the Linda beneath the beautiful face, something Linda appreciated more than she could ever truly express.

They spoke the whole evening, the time passing before either noticed, they found just how much they had in common, interests, likes, dislikes, and as almost a natural progression from their fast-formed friendship - a common love for each other.

Jeremy had asked her of her family before they kissed for the first of many times that evening, she'd looked vaguely guilty, ashamed that he knew, but she'd regained her form. Told him she was leaving – it was all only a matter of time.

And she was to be proven right.

* * *

Not long after Sarah celebrated her forth birthday, Linda left.

Their romance had been a literally whirlwind. It had taken Linda aback, she thought she knew luxury and extravagance but her much talked of events seemed little more than tea parties in comparison to the life Jeremy offered to her. Champagne, fashion shows, world tours, he held it all before her, it was overpowering, the life of which she'd always dreamed – it was finally hers to claim. And yet she found herself deterring, avoiding the inevitable marital collapse, and all because of Sarah.

She'd learned to love her in those four short years, learned to love her more dearly than any other. She wanted to be a good mother, she truly did, but the day before she left, she'd looked in the mirror, and had seen just how incapable she was of being any sort of a mother to her little girl, she knew that Sarah deserved better than what she could offer her. She looked into her wide, apprehensive eyes and_ knew _she wasn't a good enough person to sacrifice her happiness for her child's, a happiness she couldn't guarantee to fulfil even if she sacrificed her own. And it _hurt_, more painfully than what any promises of future happiness could compensate for.

Robert knew, he couldn't not know. Jeremy was a famous man, their photos were in the glossy rags the like of which are pored and exclaimed over worldwide. It made him rage to see her flaunting her undeserved freedom at him. He'd cried to her, just as she'd cried back telling him how sorry she was, of how she was sorry for the years he'd wasted with her, because she'd always known he would never be enough. He slapped her in his outrage, leaving a red streak across her beautiful, perfectly made-up face, asked her how she could dare to say such a thing, when the whole congregation had witnessed the depth of her happiness at their wedding. She could say nothing.

He'd shouted louder as she ran up the stairs, packing her bags with a deathly restrictive silence. She performed mechanically, and it felt strange to her, that the day she had no dreamed of was bringing her nothing but tumultuous pain. She barely heard Robert as his shouting grew yet louder, threats more menacing and hurtful. She winced when he shouted, near screamed, that he would never be allowed to see her daughter again, if she was leaving him, she was leaving Sarah. She said not a word. She was afraid she'd be unable to carry it through if she allowed her weakness to shatter her so very beautiful voice, for her fear to consume her uncontrollably.

Her last action before leaving, never to return, was to kiss her daughter on the head as she slept in the midst of her rainbow streaked covers and blankets, slipping the little red book into her child's unfurled hands.

Her job was done, role fulfilled, and she'd walked away – left forever, left for Jeremy.

* * *

Thank-you very much for reviewing the last chapter everyone, it is very much appreciated. I am sorry it;s taken so long to get another chapter up, but I've had lot's of other commitments recently.

I hope you enjoy it, and please, please review, it really spurs me to continue, as there is only one chapter left now!


	3. Chapter 3

Sarah couldn't understand that her mama had gone. How do you explain to the child with the wide clear eyes gazing at you in absolute innocence that mama didn't care enough to stay?

You can't, and so that is why Robert Williams told his daughter nothing.

* * *

Sarah grew up in blissful ignorance to all. She lived in, and accepted little but her fantasies – they seemed far more real to her than reality.

For Sarah's reality was an adult world, of standing in the doorway robed in her floral nightie, sucking her thumb, clinging tight to her precious teddy Lancelot as Daddy and the business men sat bartering around the dinner table, speaking in what was nothing more than utter nonsense to little Sarah. They would laugh at her, make ignorantly demeaning remarks, such as 'that's a cute kid you've got yourself there Robby' before her father went to her, lifting her up to take her back to bed, calling her his little angel, his princess, as he settled her to sleep.

Robert was left devastated by his wife's departure. He'd never truly believed she'd leave, he'd never wanted it to go so far. How he'd regretted that blow, how he cringed at the memory of the look of utter horror, disbelief on his sweethearts face before she ran up the stairs in preparation for her final flight.

He never really accepted that he'd been left as a divorcee, he refused to speak of Linda to anyone, not even his parents, it took many years to discover that she had ever left. He didn't know what had become of her, some days went by with him desperately craving to know what had happened to the one he had loved so dearly, but he always restrained himself from ringing the numbers he knew could tell all – he had no wish to dreg up ghosts of the past.

For Sarah, this involved being told nothing of her mother. She remembered her, of course she remembered the mother who had loved her enough to sit with her for hours and laboriously read each word of the hundred-page play for her little daughter. But as the years passed, the memories began to fade, her loving words grew silent and Sarah, having no mother to know, invented her own.

Sarah gave herself a lovely, beautiful mother. She had skin as fair as snow, hair as dark as ebony, and lips a deep ruby red. To Sarah, her mother had been a Queen, and Sarah the Princess, the true and legitimate heir to the throne of a far off mystical land. A wonderful fantastic land, inhabited wholly by dragons, dashing knights, weeping ladies in their turret hats and of course – ample quantities of gossamer winged faeries.

But as a baby, Sarah told her little pen rapidly scratching the words of her own personal fairy-tale to paper, she had been stolen, stolen away by a wicked, desperately jealous King, who wished for the the beautiful Queen for himself. And he had fed her mother a potion, and she fell into a deep false love with him. The baby had been left all alone, spirited away to the earth, a land of unhappiness, monotony and despair – for no one knew her.

For Sarah, the fairy tale finished with the baby growing into a beautiful girl, possessed of a radiance that even outshone that of her mother, and reclaiming her throne, breaking the spell put unto her own mother, and finding her very own prince charming, who had lifted her off her feet, sat her on his beautiful ivory stallion, and led her off into the far distant sunset.

Sarah had been deeply satisfied with this creation at the tender age of eight, had written it out in her neatest script, filling an entire notebook with her story. She drew her own little illustrations as well, put great time and care into her mama's face, the rainbow wings of the faeries, the wide, happy smile on her own face at the finale.

She had proudly presented it to her father, and the look on his face upon opening the first page was unfathomable. He'd been devastated at the sight of it, as for him, it encapsulated his child's loneliness, her masked despair.

She'd been hurled into a fury when he kept the book from her, when he told her with as much patience, as much love that he could summon, that he would take care of it, he would treasure it, but she could not see it again, he patted her head, told her to go and watch the television, like a good girl.

He read through the tale in bed that night, tears running silently as he saw the Linda he knew so well captured by the hand of her child. What hurt him more is that he couldn't see not a mention of him, the man who tried so very hard to be everything to his daughter, and was little more than nothing in her child's eyes.

He didn't understand that Sarah meant no such things with the invention of her story, it had merely been an escape for her at first, just a diversion from her boring daddy, for it wasn't that she didn't love him that she failed to include him, it was merely that he held little interest for her beyond the hopelessly mundane source of love that most knew so well. All that changed for Sarah when her creation was taken from her, her story began to displace the reality, she soon began to live by it – the careful, careful rules her fairy tale world laid out for her.

He took the slim notebook to the loft that night, reaching blindly for a place to secret it, to wipe it from his memory. He groped about in the darkness, before finding a box, a tattered flimsy thing, and throwing the tale into it, he retreated. If he had dared flick the light switch he would of seen the scrawl on that box, he would of seen the name 'Linda.'

* * *

Sarah was thirteen when everything changed, when her world fell down.

She learned so much about herself in that year, her family, her whole world. All the lies, the deceit were exposed to her, and she couldn't bear it, it was all too much revelation compressed into a mere sequence of days that drove her to the station. The one way ticket to Manhattan held with a desperate tightness in her quivering hand.

On Sarah's thirteenth birthday, Sarah's father took her out for a meal to a local pizza parlour. He'd asked her is she had friends to invite to a party, had eagerly suggested venues, days, times, but she'd looked up at him blank and cold. He didn't need to be told his daughter was virtually friendless, and the ones who dared refer to Sarah Williams as _friend_ were often neglected and despised by Sarah in the secrecy of her room. Her room where she could talk with her _real_ and true friends, her teddies, her books – her endlessly monotonous padlocked diary. The friends who had not the slightest potential to hurt her.

It would have been a perfect day for Sarah, her and her daddy, his attention focused on her alone – no business associates to interrupt and steal his affection, not on _her_ birthday. That is, had it not been for one devastating component – Karen. Robert had brought his _friend_ as he referred to her euphemistically along to the celebrations, and Sarah set out from the very beginning to hold her in absolute, utter contempt.

Karen tried to get along with her partner's daughter, she wasn't a monster, was certainly not the wicked fairy-tale Stepmother Sarah painted her as so eagerly. She desperately tried to draw Sarah from her self-immersion as she picked miserably at her food, spoke to her of the things she had been interested in at thirteen – boys, pop music, even school (though that is generally what adults perceive to be of interest to adolescents), none of which held the remotest appeal for Sarah. Each attempt at companionship did nothing by strengthen Sarah's resolve to make this blonde haired mannequin's life a misery.

Sarah told her father, coldly, from beneath her covers as he tucked her in on the night of her coming of age, of her opinions of Karen. Told him with absolutely clarity and steadfast solidarity. He'd scolded her for being so wicked, told her that he liked Karen very much, he found her interesting, she made him very happy, and, he told her, he hoped he'd make her happy too. He meant so much more than his masked words could express – but Sarah was no fool, she guessed his true feelings well enough.

Sarah said nothing. She didn't need to, both knew that a new mother could never possibly be a source of happiness for Sarah, not when Sarah would always remember that smiling, laughing face, wiping her tears, setting her to bed with the tenderest and most loving of kisses.

It took only a matter of months for one thing to follow another, a brief, intense romance, an engagement, and finally - a marriage. The tantrums, the tears that Sarah had bombarded the new couple with are near impossible to encompass in words, but the childish mix of pain, fear resentment was so very powerful – it truly scared the couple who stood before her hand in hand to tell her of their forthcoming joy.

Sarah refused to come to the wedding. How Robert had tried to coax her with the promise of a beautiful bridesmaid's dress, the beautiful gauzy creations of which she had always so admired with her little nose pressed tightly to the windows of Bridal Boutiques. But nothing, nothing in the world could of drawn her from her room at the moment in time. It had been a most subdued, simple affair their wedding, it all had the feel on intense melancholy about it, for all present could see Robert William's face agonising for his daughter sat back home locked in her room.

Sarah was delivered new purpose on the day of the wedding, no one had truly thought she would persist in her stubborn resistance to the concept of her father's happiness, and there had no one to prepare for a sitter, no relatives willing to sit for the strange, brooding child.

And this had delivered Sarah the perfect opportunity, she knew so little of her mother, her father didn't even keep any photos of her for her little girl to remember her by. Sarah only had the vaguest memories of a beautiful, smiling, laughing face lavishing her with attention, kisses and hugs, the like of which she had never known again. And so Sarah set out that day to find out the truth, with nothing more than a name – Linda.

Sarah trouped down to the bus stop, and despite the bus driver's look of shock that she could even pay the fare into town, she made it. She made a bee line straight to the library, a place her grandmother had taken her to visit many times, where she had withdrawn many fairy tale volumes, and brightly painted storybooks, but this time it was different, for once she asked not for a fantasy, but for the truth, the truth of her mother.

She went to the lady at the desk, and asked her if she search a name in the newspaper listings, the librarian gave her a contemptuous look from beneath her glasses, surprised that nothing more than a girl should wish to delve into such musty recesses of information.

She sighed, clearly displaying her feeling that her efforts were not worth the time for a child, but keyed in the letters into her primitive cataloguing system, as if to infuriate Sarah, she asked for the spelling, with Sarah rattled off without a moment's hesitation.

After a series of slow, dragging minutes, which only acted to make Sarah increasingly short-tempered and snappish, the search was complete. The gaunt skeletal woman gave her the reference numbers of the relevant papers of a slip of paper, and directed her towards the records room. Making sure to inform her in a tone of subtle menace that if she so much as tore the sports page of one of the ancient, decrepit news journals, she would have to pay a sum incomprehensible to one so young, she was sent on her way.

The first thing that struck Sarah when she went through the heavy insulated door to the library's record room was _age_. The sense of a room that was rarely entered. It had been left to do little more than collect dust and be consistently replenished with newly printed papers with no purpose remaining but to rot to dust.

Sarah was swift in her task, for she had waited so terribly long for this, to discover her mother as she truly was, to gain some substantial information of her beyond those misty, desperately vague memories. She gathered together all the papers making mention of her mama that the librarian had given her references for, carefully noted the years, they ranged from 1966 to 1978, the year her mother disappeared from the records forever.

The thrill she felt, at sifting through the pages of the earliest newspaper, a small-scale local affair, was indescribable. It was an article on a play held by the local high school, _The Taming of the Shrew_. What made it so very special was that it had a photo, a bitty faded image of her mother, smiling broadly, garbed in a pseudo Elizabethan gown, looking every bit the Queen Sarah had always envisaged her to be.

She felt like crying, at finally, finally seeing her true mother's face, the face of the women the usurper Karen would try to ape in her newly gained role, but now Sarah knew of her true mother, she knew all the more that she needed not this Karen, she didn't even need her traitorous, neglectful father – for she had her mother back.

Sarah remained in the room for hours, eyes carefully fixated to the page, taking in every slight detail her memory could take, she was like a starved man, so eagerly consuming all the trivial fractures of knowledge that had been so cruelly withheld from her. She watched the years go by, saw her mother's beauty do nothing but flower into something more brilliant than what she had ever envisaged in her childish tales.

It scared her in a way to see just how similar her mother was to her, in near all ways, her hair, her eyes, the shape of her nose the resemblance was almost shocking, but it did nothing to please her that she was evoking her, her oh so beautiful, talented, successful mother. All was fitting her fairy tale so neatly, it only grounded the fantasy for her.

She was able to piece together her own story of her mother from the scattered articles, growing in size and prominence, moving from local newspapers to national ones as the years passed by. Her mother had started so _low_ she found, school plays, cheap, tacky advertisements, tiny bit parts with a smattering of lines, but she had moved to such great heights – national theatres, galas, stood by the side of one of the most powerful, influential men in theatre. She read the articles of how they played their roles together, side by side, inseparable they said, so very much in love they could not bear to be parted – her mother and Jeremy King.

Sarah had easily seen why her mother had been so very transfixed and taken with the striking figure of Jeremy. He had always been cut so very clearly within her mind, the villain, the bad, bad man who snatched her mother from her. But looking, looking at their smiles, reading the article _The On-stage Kiss_, she could begin to understand, the man was intoxicating, even to one as young as Sarah she could tell he was unbelievably handsome, so utterly compelling, he oozed charisma.

His captured smile induced a blush, as if she could imagine him giving her such smiles, pressing onto her the kind of love she could never truly imagine. She imagined the happiness they had far, far away from the drudgery that was the life of Sarah Williams. It made her ache for the thought of such a future.

She became so absorbed in the epic nature of her mother's life, the cinematic qualities of it all that she nearly missed the reference to her agent, Rosemary Walker, there was a phone number there as well. Sarah was ecstatic to find it, she knew she had at last found a tangible link to her mother, some way to break through the so horribly cruel restrictions placed on her all her life.

She had to be sent from the library forcibly in the end, for the sun was dipping beneath the landscape, the sky darkening – it was time to close. She asked as she was near frog marched out if she could have a copy of the articles, anything to take back and keep, the librarian said nothing, just left her outside the door as it began to rain, turning the sign from open to closed.

Sarah had been left alone outside there for a while, just stood in blissful ignorance yet revelation in the rain, she had spun herself around, hugging her arms tight to herself in her joy, just letting the rain fall onto her wild and free, uncaring for her chilled skin. Passers by thought her mad, but part of her, part of her boundless joy inspired something within them, made passers by give curious slight smiles to the girl who cared for nothing in the world.

* * *

Months passed. Sarah had been found, after tearful phone calls from the honeymooning couple who had rang the police frantic for the missing girl. She'd been found after hours, sat cowering in the bus shelter, quaking desperately from the cold, it had been late in the night when she'd been found, the rain drumming persistently to the floor.

She'd suffered significant exposure, was restricted to bed for days, and she enjoyed it in a strange bizarre twisted sense, to have all the attention stocked up for the new bride directed at her. Her father near neglecting Karen in his desperation to show Sarah that he loved her, to show her just how much he cared.

Karen tried at first in the marriage, tried very hard to be nice, tried taking Sarah to the cinema, to the town, she attempted to bond with her, all to not the slightest avail. Sarah near ignored her, or directed frantic tearful tantrums at her stepmother's door. Karen tried so hard, it all made Sarah's total rejection of her worse than it ever had been before.

So after the first two months, Karen could not resists answering back sharply to a shocked Sarah, the girl who near without exception had always got her very own way all her life. Karen proceeded to intensify her backlash, refusing to let Sarah have her beloved dog, Merlin, in the house, saying, among other things, that 'I have an allergy' and 'he's so _messy_.'

What began as petty insults escalated into a full blown, passionately borne war, with Sarah and Karen having their weekly eruption when Sarah was left at home near every weekend as Karen dragged her vaguely bemused father out to various fashionable hot spots about the town.

What began as a passionate dislike evolved into something far worse – because it was so genuinely meant – wretched hate. After a while, she began ignoring her step-mother, avoiding her at all available opportunities or refusing to speak to her when she was asked anything. Karen's repertoire consistently consisting of questions relating to boyfriends, school and friends, and more importantly why she seemed not to have the remotest interest in any of them.

Her obsession with her mother did nothing but deepen, for Sarah had refused to tell any where she had went that raining bitter night, despite the pleading, the coaxing, the threats from her father, and so nothing was down to dissuade her from constant dwelling on the subject. She would remove the paper with the name and the number clumsily scrawled on repeatedly, each night, considering whether she really wished to find out what had truly happened to her mother, to discover whether she had found her happiness.

She had just fought a particularly brutal war of tongues with Karen before she and her awkward, mumbling, useless father who did nothing but stand by, useless to quell the open warfare, when she chose to take action. Karen had gone too far that night, had called her spoilt, had called her selfish – when she knew nothing, had no idea of just how much she cared for that one unspoken other in her life – her true mother.

She'd seized the phone, and dialled the number before she considered or doubted to change her course, her heat raced as the end of the line sounded rhythmically in it's monotony, her head considering all that could happen, would she answer? Would a stranger respond to her call? Or would there just be no answer at all?

Her heart near stopped when a weary woman's voice spoke the name she had read over and over.

"Hello, this is Rosemary Walker, how can I help you?" Sarah paused for a moment, shocked, taken a back by her directness, considering what on earth she would say, something she had never really anticipated as being necessary. The voice asked again, digging for an answer, "hello? Is anyone there?"

"Umm, yeah. I don't think you'll know me, but I'm sure I know you. I need to find out something, it's real important." She paused didn't know whether she could bring herself to take the final step and speak her mother's name.

"Yes dear? What do you want?" The woman was clinging to the phone, happy for any kind of true human contact beyond the ever-persistent debt collectors.

"I want to know, if you know, if you know Linda Williams. If you know where she is, I – I'm her daughter, and I need to know, it's so important." Sarah began crying, overcome with the effort it had all taken, she gripped the phone desperately, nails scraping the plastic as she could barely contain the tension of the wait Rosemary was putting her through.

After what seemed like hours, a voice, wavering, as if overcoming desperate shock spoke to her, as if carefully composed and orchestrated, "I can't tell you that dear, it's really best you don't know, can't you ask your father?"

"No, no I can't ever do that. Please, please, you must tell me, you have no idea how it feels, it's awful, please, please, if you can't tell me where she is, can't you at least tell me someone who can?"

Her voice was nearing anger, as if she would like to shout, scream down the line until she got her answers – but she knew how powerless she was, knew her answers were totally reliant on a stranger's judgement.

Another lengthy pause, Sarah heard her breath magnified by the silence, then a voice, the final time she would hear it, telling her the name and the number of an apartment, in the infamous rich district of Manhattan. Sarah felt close to whopping with joy at the thought of how close she was now, as she scribbled down the reference on the back of the scrap of paper Rosemary's number was carefully recorded. _Only a train ride away with the new station,_ was her main thought, the voice one the other side of the line near forgotten.

Rosemary told her one last thing before the line went dead, "look honey, there are some things you shouldn't know. If you're dad wouldn't tell you where Linda is, there was a reason. Maybe, maybe it would be best if you didn't go, you live too far away, you're, you're still just a little girl!" Sarah put the phone back dead on the receiver. She would listen to no such nonsense, she was going to see her mother again soon, and no cruel dismissive words would deter her from her course.

* * *

It was two months later, after Sarah had carefully researched just how to reach her appointed destination, that she left, kit bag slung across her shoulder, warm coat in hand, purse full of months of carefully hoarded pocket money.

Her father and Karen had approached her door, knocking tenaciously as she recited to herself the words from the beloved play her mother had thought to leave her as companion. She told them sharply to leave her alone at first. If there was anything that angered her, it was being disturbed during one of her recitals.

She opened the door at their insistence, and there both were, bold as anything, as if they were _proud,_ hand in hand as they had been before, when they had told her of their engagement. Her father told her as Karen looked on nervously, told her of how she would soon have a little brother or sister,told her of how happy the thought had made him, desperately emphasised how it would do nothing to compromise his love for her.

She looked him in the eyes, as she did to all when testing the depth of their sincerity, and she read her own meaning in to them. Told herself it was all thinly veiled lies, of how Karen had taken her father from him in near all ways, and how a new baby would just widen the chasm that had emerged between them – if not break the relationship between them completely. She chose to hate the child then, months before it's birth, as she slammed the door heavy in their faces.

Sarah left the next evening, a Saturday, when her father was taking Karen out for a lavish meal to compromise for Sarah's brutal rejection.

For you see, in her own eyes, she had absolutely nothing left to loose.

* * *

Wow, I remember thinking a 2000 word chapter was long once – and this clocks in at close to 5000! This was going to be the last chapter but it just got so ridiculously long, I had to split it, so keep you're eyes peeled for another chapter after this!

Thank you very much for reviewing everyone, it's great to hear what you think, and it would be lovely if you could do the same for this chapter, especially as I'm exploring an area I haven't really touched upon before. I hope you all enjoy it!

Many thanks as always to my Beta, Ergott!


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey kid, watch where you're going!" Steven Jeffries blared his horn as loud as it would go at the dark haired girl who dashed across his path, satchel clutched to her side, yelling a rushed, harried apology.

He was not in the best of moods. It was towards the end of his shift, and boy, had it been a long day. The old she-devil of a Duane-Reade manager, Leslie Priestley, had been complaining about him - again. His manner, his lateness, his everything. It took great will power for the man not to begin informing her heavily that he had a wife and two pre-teen sons, all of whom would kill him were he was not back in time for soccer practice.

He watched as she made it onto the pavement, circling her own little spot as if unable to comprehend the scale and the heights that were Manhattan. She kept on colliding with harried strangers who cast her looks as if she were the devil incarnate for halting their progress for a succession of precious seconds.

He sighed. He'd seen this before. Girls, little more than children really, drawn to Manhattan like bees to honey, desperately aspiring for fame and fortune - only to find themselves totally dwarfed by it all and disorientated upon arrival. In the end wanting nothing more than to see the welcoming streets of home beckon.

"Look, kid, d'you even know where you're going?" He wasn't a heartless man. He didn't want to see her end up like some of the girls in the big city.

"Umm... No, not really," she seemed taken aback from his concern, with good reason. Sarah Williams, to whom all had adored and strived to please, had spent the last day traveling by night train, changing trains three times. She had been totally ignored by everyone and all. It made her quite indignant that no one would give her, daughter of the peerless Linda Williams, a care.

"Are you heading anywhere? Got anywhere to go?" She approached cautiously, like a wild animal being offered tantalizing scraps of food by a clumsily intimidating human. She was edgily sizing him up, checking, as her father would say, that he was 'reputable.'

"Umm...yeah. I'm looking for this address. You wouldn't know it, would you?" She produced a scraggy, much thumbed scrap of paper from her jeans pocket, handing if over to him. She studied him anxiously as he looked over the address with care.

He gave a low appreciative whistle before answering, "Whoa, you must have some friends in high places, kid, to have an address like that." He passed it back to her, she seizing it back in an instant.

"I do, actually." Sarah gave a smug smile of hopeless self-assurance, without realizing it for a second. Stephen didn't really care, he saw money now. Anywhere to live in that block had to pretty special. Its name was spoken in terms of respectful reverence, the name of Trump Tower.

"Look, you'll get plastered to the concrete if I let you wander about alone. Hop in. I know where it is." He opened the door. It was lucky for her that he was reputable, for she ambled in most happily, strapping herself in securely and posing herself for the ride.

* * *

On the short distance ride, what had began as annoyance, developed into curiosity, then emerged as concern. He'd seen during the cross town trip just how much of a child she really was, with her snub nose, near total ignorance and her blind trust in everyone without question or consideration for the danger. She looked older than she was really, could of passed for sixteen, but she was so childish in all other ways. She looked lost without a parent clinging onto her hand to prevent her from being led from the straight and narrow.

He pulled up outside the towering building, with its black shadowed windows that for all the world seemed to ascend into the clouds. She opened the door and stood beneath it, gasping in stunned awe, taken aback by the sheer majesty.

All this time, Steven Jeffries sat watching from his ramshackle car. The noise of the engine groaning and wheezing, in the back of his mind, passed unnoticed. He watched the inevitable play out before him.

He found himself realizing he hadn't even asked her name. Wordless in his turmoil, as she bounded through the swiftly revolving doors that caught the sun in a brilliant glare as they made their swift, ceaseless progress. He didn't know what stopped him from crying out to stop her, to even ask her who she was going to see.

She left him as faceless and unreachable as any stiffly suited stranger in the swarm of the street.

* * *

"And you are?" The receptionist, an impossibly sarcastic condescending man had watched the girl race into his revered, precious reception. Sarah, in her haste, didn't see the plush two inch deep cerulean blue carpet and the human-sized vases bursting over with fresh orchids. He watched as she muddied the carpet and knocked an orchid out of place from the arrangement that had taken hours to prepare.

"Sarah, Sarah Williams. I'm here to see this address," she slid the much scrutinized piece of paper across the top of the reception. The attendant regarded it with barely voiced disdain, before speaking.

"Can you not read...?"

"Of course," she wasn't going to let herself be intimidated now, not now that she'd come so far. She read off the address, carefully, but confidently. She was incensed when he gave a mocking, condescending laugh when she spoke the number. What began as a light chuckle descended into frenzied screeching; it scared her. She took a few steps away from the desk, as the man regained a sense of composure. He held her gaze with malice, oh yes, how he would look forward to shattering the dreams of _this_ one.

"I am afraid, my dear, that no one, _no one, _sees the occupant of that room. Mr. King brings in his guests personally, or he goes to them. Never them to him." It struck her then, just who she was here to see. She had guessed, had known _him_ as a likely possibility, for she knew him as the only tangible link to her mother – but had never truly known until his name was uttered with near holy reverence by the beetle eyed man sat smirking with glorious satisfaction before her.

"You don't understand, he'll see me. He knows me. He really will."

"He will not, now please leave. You are blocking the reception for guests with _real_ inquiries."

"Look, please, you've got to, you have to, you have no idea what this means..."

"Yes, I do. Another silly little girl looking to be booted to stardom by a famous man. Now I demand you leave, I will call security if you -"

"What will you truly do if the girl doesn't leave, man?" Sarah and the man at reception turned to look at the source of the dark purring voice, the voice of Jeremy King.

The man so confident and sure almost flinched back at the sight of her. It was clearly _her. _Everything about her...her hair, her stance, her eyes, her beautiful eyes, he knew the woman behind the girl. He knew his wife. Never, in his entire life had Jeremy King been at a loss for words. He just stood, staring at the girl in whom he saw the image of his much beloved wife, the wife he no longer had.

Sarah was struck by what she could only think of as his beauty. His blond hair was slightly tousled, flawlessly placed and swept back against his forehead. His skin was pale, his cheek bones set high adding a distinguished air and emitting a sense of dwarfing, effortlessly exercised superiority. But the aspect of him that took her most was his_ eyes_. His horribly, arresting eyes. They were both a pale, clear blue, almost alarmingly pale. Whilst they were cold, they were not cruel. There was a certain warmth and a suffocated passion within them that shone luminously as she looked on at him unable to tear her gaze free.

It was disconcerting. The intensity scared her, and almost without meaning to, she took a step back, crashing into a towering porcelain vase. It promptly crashed to the floor, spilling its excessively fragrant exotic contents to the floor.

The room fell to a deadly silence, all eyes on Sarah Williams. She had finally taken centre stage.

"You, - you little fool!" The man who previously sat stoically behind the mahogany desk, stood up, his face blazing in his outrage. He raised himself stiffly from the padded, care worn chair, exiting his well fortified domain to approach Sarah, who visibly cowered at his fury.

Sarah, who could do nothing but mutter 'sorry' over and over in ineffectual nervousness and intimidation, as the little balding man took position before Sarah. She recoiled as he jabbed his rounded fore finger at her, screeching and blazing his bloated wrath, his voice reverberating about the room.

Then she felt a hand, heavy and safe in its presence, rest on her shoulder.

Sarah turned around , away from the man, to look on as her savior spoke smoothly to the little man still blazing his anger, "Send me the bill, you petty little man. Do you know how easy it would be for me to snatch your precious little career from you? Now, leave." The man gulped, before skittering off to his blinded office, his intimidation rising to rival that of Sarah.

Jeremy turned to her, offering an arm. She found herself unable to refuse, as he led her up the stairs. They moved out of sight of the man whose only concern was maintaining control over his aggravation, his humiliation before the most powerful and influential man he knew or could ever hope to.

* * *

"Now, I think you had better explain some things to me," Jeremy stood aloft, holding his head with the bearing of any noble king of long ago, his eyes never leaving Sarah as she sat before him, absorbing all in quiet awe.

It was beautiful. That was all she could think of. How wonderful his rooms were, and so many rooms he had! What had began years ago as a single floor had grown to three, it rivaled the size and scale of any mansion. The walls were decked out with mirrored panels, gilding, and painted ceilings that would not look out of place in a vast Renaissance cathedral. All simply existing as a display of wealth to impress and inspire – and how effectively they worked their magic on Sarah. Sarah, who sat peering into the multitude of twin faces, occasionally waving, crossing her eyes – just to see the bizarreness of her doubles follow her every move, the every twitch and quirk of her ceaselessly gesticulating face.

She didn't even register that he'd spoken for a while, she was too engulfed by everything, how it all so fitted her fairytale. She could picture her mother here. Yes, she could see it very well, her mother lounging on the chaise with the mauve silk upholstery, smiling, beckoning for her daughter's embrace.

But his voice did hit her in the end. A voice like that had to. It did not exist to be ignored or overlooked. An actor's voice exists to be projected and heard by hundreds, to domineer, enrapture, ensnare a captive audience for the duration of the act. And how well Jeremy used his beautifully trained voice. How well he knew the levels of intonation and volume to use. When he spoke to her again, repeating the same line, louder, his voice reflecting his fast failing patience.

She jerked her head towards him, smiled, and mumbled a shaky apology. All she could think was how handsome he was, far more so than any photographer could capture. His voice never failed to send a thrill searing through her, a thrill she didn't particular understand or pay notice to – but it was a sensation, the existence of which frightened that poor little girl.

"Me? You're right, I sure as hell do have a lot of explaining to do!" She gave an awkward little laugh, an utterance not returned or reflected on by Jeremy. He had turned slightly, pouring himself a glass from a vintage bottle of red wine, muttering slightly to himself the year, "1943. A good year."

"Umm, well yeah, to cut a long story short – I'm looking for my mom, and I was told you would be able to help. I know you, you and my mum, went out, after she went away. Do you know where she is? Will she be coming back soon?" She brought it all out in a rush, as if she could barely stand to speak of the memories. The events that still scarred her, still scorched and haunted her dim, distorted memories. Yet, she had hope, as she looked at him earnestly. He turned once more to face her, arching an eyebrow, as he spoke.

"What is your name, Miss Williams?" He had to be sure of who this girl was before embarking on his tirade. He felt confident, loosened by the wine, he knew what he had to do now. Knew exactly what he had to show the girl who sat lost in her fantasies before him. Knew just what he had to make her _understand._

Sarah creased her brow as to how he would know that, before it clicked – her mother would have still borne her father's name when she met him – for she hadn't belonged to _him_ then. She felt reassured at finding a sense of normality and grounding in what otherwise appeared as the perfect manifestation of her fairy tale stage. And so, confidence and assurance recovered, she answered him.

"Sarah."

He moved over to her carefully, positioning himself against the mirrored wall, facing her as she sat, the sheer intensity of his gaze and stance demanding her unwavering attention. "She spoke of you often, Sarah, longed for you, she never forgot you. I didn't know who you were at first Sarah, I just saw a pretty little girl, but now I know you, the only one ever capable of taking the one thing I ever truly wanted from me." Sarah felt an awful lurch in her stomach, a sensation of nagging uneasiness. A horrible sense that she had just committed a huge mistake – and she was about to pay.

She sat rigidly in the chair as he gazed at her, his eyes boring through her in a cruel judgment of a child. She wanted to dissolve, to be eaten up by the ground, to run away, but her legs were petrified to the floor. As he drew closer, he knew how to intimidate so well with his fellow actors, scared them sometimes with the conviction and passion he could carry off with such depths of false emotion. But that was nothing to when it was real – and oh so truly meant.

"She was nervous at first, your mother, as was to be expected. She had just left everything, and all she had ever known behind to come to me. She had no reason to trust me, blindly placed herself in my care and keeping, just as you have done now. You little _fool! _Do you have any idea what you have done by entering here? When you saw me, you should of bolted, little girl, ran home to your father, for that is where you are safe. You're nothing more than a child Sarah, playing with your toys, immersing yourself within your fantasies – just as we all do. But Sarah, you must leave your fantasies, girl. You are not going to stay a child for much longer."

He drew closer as she shrank back. Death would have been a welcome escape to her frenzied sensibilities as she followed his every slight step towards her. To be spared from whatever masked horror he was to inflict.

"I am sure you entered here with such a little fantasy, expecting to see your mama seated waiting. Did you not? It is a pretty notion to perceive life with such low levels of sense or perception. Charming in most contexts, but it can get dangerous, Sarah. _Here_ it is dangerous for you followed me blindly, expecting me to play to your set script, but you will not get that Sarah. You will receive something of far greater significance. Something you will not truly understand, because I don't either."

"You came to find the truth of you mother, is that right?" He came horribly close to her. She barely dared to breathe, silent in her fear. She closed her eyes as the sensation of his warm breath settled on her neck. "Sarah?" She nodded fervently, anything, anything to keep him away.

"Your mother never left you, not in truth. She may have been lost from your thoughts, I'm sure, after being replaced. I heard your father remarried. Never have I seen your mother sadder." He retreated slightly, moving to stand over her as she sat in rapt attention to his every word His eyes drifted toward the mirrored walls, as he tightened his grip on the flute of his glass and drank slowly as he gazed transfixed by his own reflection. His tortured, desolate eyes. The horror of what he spoke almost intrigued her, fueled her interest to an extent supplementing the terror. "I expect you have a new mother now?"

She spoke. She couldn't stop herself, her voice barely intelligible as it shook and wavered with the fear. "No, never. I've...I've just never had a mother at all, not really..." she trailed off, shocked that she had even dared to speak. In her tired, heavy eyes she could only see that he would shame her, twist her words, manipulate their true purpose and intent. This was what she feared of the strange, strange man who she barely knew.

"Oh, but you did Sarah. If you agonized over _her_ at all, you may take comfort in that she agonized for he poor little child for the rest of days. Agonized more than you can imagine. She grew more distant, more frenzied as her life progressed. She devoted countless hours writing you letters that she never sent, buying presents that were never delivered. I found her trying to board a train once – a train towards you, her child. She lost all balance. Last year, she left, didn't even pack a bag. I never saw her again."

The man paused, a frown creasing his perfect brow as he looked at his glass as it stood empty, the remnants of the wine forming a red pool at the base. He moved carefully over to the bar, effortlessly drawing another bottle, silently pouring another glass to its fullest.

Sarah felt dizzy. It felt like her head was lolling back, she couldn't believe it. After all the painstaking years imagining her mother as the fairy princess of her stories, when all she was doing was desperately thinking of, longing for the daughter she didn't have the strength to remain for. All her mother had longed for was the mendacity and normality that she herself had scorned in its entirety.

"Do you want a drink?" She looked at him, regaining some sense of time and place, surfacing for a time, as he proffered her a glass. As if she were a lady of high society. As if she were her mother.

"Do you even know how old I am?" Her voice conveyed her sense of shock. She barely sustained her fear at what he was proposing by the request, her bottom lip wobbling uncontrollably. She looked at it – the icon of an adult world, a world to which she did not remotely belong. Her legs shook as she raised herself from her high-backed chair and began backing away slowly to the door, seeking her escape.

"Seventeen? Linda must have indeed married young to have a daughter already as old as you. Already more your mother than she ever was herself." He advanced on her. If he hadn't tottered slightly in his step, he would have appeared the perfect figure of dark seduction.

"Stay back."

"Why Sarah? What do you think I'm going to do? I wouldn't harm you, how could I harm _you_? The last vestige of the only woman I can ever say I loved?" He was drunk. She could smell the foul stench on his breath as he approached, deranged, maddened, seeking vengeance and consolation. The only one who could offer him such comfort had left him inescapably.

"For pity's sake, I'm just a kid! I'm thirteen!" He froze. A horribly wretched indescribable pain took him, engulfed him. His face contorted, devastated, angry, confused – his reason and his distorted misplaced desire battling for dominance within him.

Sarah bolted to the door, felt a surge of cleansing relief as she felt the handle turn and made to pelt down the stairs. Then she heard him, heard the pathetic whisper as he sat folded into the chair she had ran from "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I never meant..." she slowly turned, still cautious, her hand still on the door. She was ready to run if she needed to.

It was pitiful, in truth. The sight of this man, so strong, so powerful and utterly intimidating, seated on her chair. His head clutched in his hands, his nails digging into the scalp in the force of his turmoil, as if coming to realization, gaining the clarity that had so broken Sarah's precious little illusions.

He took a glance up as she now stood in front of him. She felt like crying for the poor, disturbed shell who sat before her. She knew who he was now – he was no brave knight in shining armor. He was little but a play actor, with a life more tragic in its bitter realism than any of Shakespeare's noble Nordic lords. "You're... you're still here? Why ? Why do you stay? Why you, when... when you were so scared, when all flee from me?"

"Cos...cos...I don't think...don't think you ever really meant to hurt me. You were just angry, weren't you?" He nodded slowly, as if stunned, shocked by her mindless display of bravery and her desire to _understand_. "You were angry with Mom?" He nodded once more, his handsome bleary eyed face looking up at her in the earnestness of any child to it's mother.

"I know how you feel. I was angry at first, so angry. I hated her, more than you can imagine, for a time. Even though I didn't even really know what she'd done. But I don't any more – because I think I can understand why..." she looked around the room, still awed by it, still lured and tempted by it, the splendor and the glamour of the gilt statues and the fine dust ridden paintings adorning the walls. She remained despite the man before her. Despite how he had just been, despite how he had nearly became a monster before her. Sarah forgot all in her perfectly simulated dream, one fantasy substituting another.

"Sarah, you must understand something, before I send you from here. You cannot stay here Sarah. This is too dangerous a place for a child, Sarah. You do not belong here – and you never should. Look. Look at all you see before your eyes," he waved his hand expansively. As she followed it, her eyes drank in the beautifully executed hues of the oils, the opulent flowers, the gorgeous paneling each capturing her curious, inquiring face in their finery.

She had another perception now. Not of her mother reclining stylishly on a chaise lounge. No, her mother had left now, truly played the fool by abandoning her glory for no life at all. She could see herself, her own frame sat on the chaise, smiling in utter indulgent bliss. The image only held for a flash and she felt wicked for imagining such a thing. She reluctantly returned to the reality of what lay before her.

"It's beautiful."

"That it may be. Maybe that's what drew your mother to theatre, drew her to_ me_. She saw the beauty, the bright shining lights and the glamour. The reality - a life of isolation, a life that is not your own – escaped her. When she had everything, she found out she had nothing at all, because she always knew in the depth of her thoughts that her everything was you – her daughter." Sarah stayed silent, slowly listening, but not being sure if she understood. She nodded, slowly as if in blind consideration, agreeing to appease him, to please him, as he continued.

"She never really wanted me, that's the sadness in it. Though I wanted her, wanted and desired her more than anything else, because I loved her. Draw comfort from that, I truly loved her, and tried to make her happy, tried so very hard. But nothing, nothing I could do held an effect or influence for her towards the end. Her beauty remained, her outward projection remained as beautiful as ever, but her spirit changed. All ambition left her – everything left her." He paused to look at her as if gaining a clearer perception of purpose – as Sarah lost any sense at all. He knew what he needed to do.

"Sarah, if I send you away now, with money, for if you are anything like your mother you would not of thought of your return, will you promise me to return home? Immediately, without stopping, no glances back, and promise me you will never come back. If you want this; the beauty, the luxury, feel free to return, but if you have the remotest glimmer of sense, leave and do not let me lay eyes on you again. I do this from kindness Sarah, know that."

Sarah fiercely loathed being ordered. It reminded her of her parents, and she saw this man as anything but a parent. She saw him as her fantasies manifest, had seen him as the knight set to rescue her from her mindless drudgery. But he scared her still, in the vaguest most thrilling of senses and it was her fear that made her obey.

He spoke to her as he reached for his wallet, picking out a selection of crisp notes, ridiculously too much. He hardly seemed to care for the amount. He just focused on his words, telling her to leave her fantasies – to accept reality for that was where she would be happy. She would find nothing but pain if she were to blindly follow the path of her mother.

As he steered her towards the door, he did what he knew he must before he could allow the past to leave him. He placed a large, well read scrapbook with curling dirtied edges in her hands. Insured she had enough money, and gave her one last lingering look. He knew he would never see her again. It was a look she could not read, could not tell if it was a glance of guilt, apprehension, or longing, but it was the face of sadness. That she could tell without the slightest flicker of doubt.

She left, the door slamming tightly shut as he moved to his bedroom. He took the photo of him embracing and lavishing smiles on a beaming Linda on their wedding day. He remembered how she'd flicked endlessly through the pages of the coveted catalogues on their bed for uncountable hours, legs striking lazily through the air, choosing the most beautiful gown of all. _Not that she needed such aid. _He recollected her smiling face with a smile of his own.

He threw it from the window, watching as it was lost from sight. She left him then.

* * *

Sarah felt bitterness, as much as a thirteen year old can, towards him then. For abandoning her, for rejecting her, as everyone did. He had failed her.

It was only when she made it onto the train, the sky darkened for the day had long since passed, that she found herself crying for so very many reasons she couldn't truly say _why_.

But, not for a moment did Linda leave Sarah. In so many ways, it was the tragic, anguished figure of her mother that she would emulate in her play acting – which Sarah only saw as her attempts to better herself to succeed – to find happiness and pleasure in her fantasies as her mother had never been capable. For Sarah wished to live life for her mother now, to make the right choices, take the path that her mother had lost all sight of.

For Sarah not only wanted to match her mother's adored success and glamour as she flicked lovingly through the pages of the carefully set album, she wished to supersede her. Take final power over the woman who steered and drove her towards life as the selfish, spoilt, somewhat tragic little girl who stood nobly in the park. Ribbons in the hair she had spent hours pinning in place wretchedly before her mirror, robed in a dress two sizes too big for her with the sleeves hitched up with two tatty old strands of hair ribbon.

Saying her right words – the words that would that would lead to Sarah understanding what had always evaded her in the past.

For in the Labyrinth, Sarah was to learn just how dangerous your fantasies can be.

* * *

Wow, now this has been through so many changes, edits, readthroughs corrctions – it's insane! But thanks to the help of my absoutely invaluable beta, yodeladyhoo, who very kindly came in at the last minute and helped me make this a far, far better concluding chapter than what it had been before. The help with the Manhattan locations and general American terms, was absoultely invaluable to giving this some sense of realsim!

I hope you all like it, it's very, _very _dramatic and very wordy (this has became incredibly long), but that is one of the main reasons I write to improve over all and put into pratice some of the technqiues I learn in English lessons. I would love it if anyone reading could let me know what you think, as I've said I hope you enjoy it!

UPDATE: This is a finalised version of the chapter, as the last had a few small typos etc. I am sorry about the extra long drawn out hiatus, but the next chapter of Simplicity's diary is getting written, I hope to gte it finished by tonight. Thursday's Child only needs editing, and then that should be up too. The continuation of Simplciity's diary should be up in the next few days.

Here is the title and summary of Thursday's Child to look ourt for, which should be remaining unchanged:

Thursday's Child

_I'm Sarah, Sarah Williams, and this? This is my life..._

Untill then!


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